


Play the Game

by swilmarillion



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Gen, just friendly rivals playing a mostly friendly game of chess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-17 21:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19963048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swilmarillion/pseuds/swilmarillion
Summary: God may play an ineffable game of his own devising, but Crowley and Aziraphale will usually settle for chess.





	Play the Game

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written these two before, but the idea struck me, and well. I slipped. Whoops ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

“Angel.”

“Yes, Crowley?”

“Must you be so vicious?” There was an edge of whining in Crowley’s voice, but Aziraphale was struck more by the hint of reproach. He was almost tempted to feel guilty…but then, he was a principality, after all, and more than a match for the tempting of a demon.

“Queen to H4,” Aziraphale said, moving his piece as he spoke. He sat back and studied the board, eyes flicking only momentarily to Crowley’s face, which registered his displeasure. “The point of the game,” Aziraphale said, “is to win. There’s nothing vicious about it.”

“It’s not the game that’s vicious,” Crowley said, moving his own queen to E1. “It’s you.”

“I am a principality,” Aziraphale said, holding his head high and sniffing in reproach. “An emissary of the Lord. I am wise and righteous and good.”

“And cutthroat,” Crowley added.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, frowning, “I don’t think it’s within my nature to be cutthroat.” He reached out and took hold of his rook. “To E8,” he said, and set it down in its new place.

“All evidence to the contrary,” Crowley muttered. He tapped his fingertips on the edge of the table, considering the game board between them.

Crowley hated to lose. Aziraphale had, on more than once occasion, accused him of the sin of pride. Crowley had taken it as a compliment, and yet he knew it wasn’t true—or, rather, not exactly true. Not in this case. Crowley was, of course, well-acquainted with all of the deadly sins—he was, after all, a demon. Perhaps it was this sure and intimate knowledge of the sin of pride that made Crowley absolutely certain it wasn’t the thing he felt when he lost at cribbage or croquet or chess. No, the thing that bothered Crowley, the feeling that really rankled him the most, was a pure and utter loathing for failure.

He’d certainly felt it the day he’d lost to Aziraphale at what had started as a friendly game of Go in London all those years ago, although, in his defense, he hadn’t meant to start a fire when he’d chucked the game board through the baker’s window. He’d been able to spin it as a temptation later, telling his fellow demons how he’d put the taste for arson in the baker’s mind. Aziraphale, for his part, had been able to claim the ensuing witch hunts for his side, so it hadn’t been a total loss.

“You’re stalling,” Aziraphale said, breaking through Crowley’s thoughts.

“I’m thinking,” Crowley said, which was technically true, and yet subtly not—a perfect demonic response. He moved his bishop to C4.

Aziraphale made a familiar, infuriating _tsk_ noise, his tongue clicking against his teeth. “Dear boy, if you’re going to take that long to think,” he said, moving his rook to E5, “then do at least try to have a little more foresight.”

“If I wanted to have a plan,” Crowley said, plucking Aziraphale’s bishop from its square and moving his own to take its place, “then I’d still be working with you lot. I’m a demon, Angel. We’re impulsive. We’re doers. We—”

“Queen to G5,” Aziraphale said, ignoring him. 

Crowley looked down at the board, his gaze inexorably drawn to the open path Aziraphale had to check.

“Shit,” Crowley said.

“Language,” said Aziraphale, more from habit than from disapproval.

Crowley hated to lose. Aziraphale had learned this through centuries of idle, increasingly friendly rivalry. He still remembered the fuss Crowley had made when Aziraphale had beaten him at Mahjong. He was fairly certain the ensuing volcanic eruption had been incidental to Crowley’s defeat, but he had been sure to claim it as the wrath of God anyway, just in case.

Aziraphale wondered vaguely if he ought to be worried about any impending not-entirely-natural disasters. 

Crowley did the only thing he could do and moved his queen to protect his king.

Aziraphale’s queen took Crowley’s, and the angel sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Checkmate,” he said, aiming for matter of fact and coming off closer to smug. 

Crowley scowled, and Aziraphale wondered if he ought to at least try to feel a twinge of remorse for whatever plague the demon might unleash. But then Crowley sighed and tipped over his king, signaling his defeat. “You win again, Angel,” he said, heaving a sigh of resignation.

“There, there,” Aziraphale said, patting the back of Crowley’s hand and offering a silent prayer of thanks that the demon had finally found a bit of self-restraint. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck next time.”

“Maybe,” Crowley said, though he didn’t sound particularly convinced. 

“I could teach you, if you like,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve got some excellent books on the subject. I’m sure I could find them if I…” He trailed off, turning in his chair to let his gaze wander over the packed and overflowing shelves that surrounded them.

“Torture’s reserved for our side, I think,” said Crowley. He’d been around Aziraphale long enough to recognize when he was in danger of losing the Angel to the bookstore’s seemingly unending stacks.

“Pardon me for offering to help,” Aziraphale said, turning back and affecting a look of reproach.

Crisis averted, Crowley thought, and grinned. “It was only a joke, Angel,” he said.

“Not a very funny one,” Aziraphale sniffed, and then his face brightened. “Speaking of which, I overheard a rather clever one on the train just the other day. I think they call it a ‘knock-knock joke’, and it went—hang on, let me think…”

“You know,” said Crowley quickly, cursing his knack for walking straight from one disaster into another, “I could really use a drink. All this strategizing has me parched.”

“Oh, good Lord,” Aziraphale said, standing up. “Where are my manners? Come with me, dear boy. I know an absolutely charming little lemonade stand a few blocks from here.”

“I had something a little stronger in mind,” Crowley said, standing up and stretching in a way that made Aziraphale mildly uncomfortable, in a strangely pleasant sort of way.

“I shouldn’t,” Aziraphale said, though there was very little conviction in his voice.

“Come on, Angel,” Crowley said, grinning. “You’ve earned it, haven’t you?”

“I suppose a job well done _is_ worth celebrating.”

“That’s the spirit,” Crowley said. “And anyway, I think you owe me a consolation prize.”

“It was a rather decisive victory,” Aziraphale said.

“No need to rub it in,” said Crowley.

“Come on, then,” Aziraphale said, and offered his arm. “I’ve got a brandy in my office I’ve been meaning to try. I found it at auction a week or so ago, and it was rather a steal.”

“How very un-angelic of you,” Crowley said, linking his arm through Aziraphale’s.

“Not at all,” Aziraphale said, leading him toward the office. “I merely removed temptation from the path of man, who surely had not the fortitude to withstand it.”

Crowley laughed. “Whatever you say, Angel,” he said, and patted Aziraphale’s arm.

Crowley hated to lose. And yet, walking arm in arm to the back of the bookshop, playfully debating the finer points of temptation and sin with his unlikely best friend, he couldn’t help but think that there were some things in life worth losing, if only to gain a greater good. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr!](http://swilmarillion.tumblr.com/)


End file.
